“Malcolm. You have returned, at last.” Riona's look of surprise changed to a scowl. “I should not be speaking to you. How dare you run off with your lady on her death bed.”
At a brisk pace, he walked toward Riona. “What say you? She is not—”
“Dead? No. No thanks to you. But the priest and healers do not think she will recover.”
“I have no time. Tell me where Bethoc is. I must hasten if I'm to save my wife.”
Riona looked at him as if he was half crazed then waved her hand airily. “But five chambers down the hall.”
Malcolm sped off in that direction and rushed into the fifth doorway down, to a roomy antechamber filled with lighted candles. Malcolm's throat tightened the moment he stepped into the chamber and saw Bethoc, still as death, on the high, narrow bed.
He approached slowly and quietly. Her body was wrapped in a green and yellow plaid bratt, bond around her like a cocoon. Malcolm stood there gazing open-mouthed at her while he caught his breath. He couldn't move. She may be dead. His heart thumped like the hooves of a galloping steed. If she yet lives, I am the only one who can save her. She needs me. I cannot fail her now.
Pushing aside his fear, he forced his feet forward. Ever so slowly, he reached out his hand until his fingers were closer and closer to her face. He touched her cheek. Her skin was warm. His body was like a leather thong which had been stretched as far as could be, then was suddenly released. His shoulders relaxed as he let out a loud sigh.
“You are alive.” A wave of laugher shot through him. He was overcome with rapt glee. Carefully, as to not jiggle her still body, he sat down on the pallet. “Bethoc, you are my life. I will not let you die.” He opened the pouch. “I have the cure.”
Holding her jaw, he forced her mouth open and pulled out a wad of sea fire. Seawater spilled out with it and wet the bratt, leaving a fishy smell. “It is a magical plant from the sea, a cure.” Malcolm shoved a piece of seafire in her mouth then closed her lips. Lifting her head, he tilted it back, forcing her to swallow.
The woman, who had burned with so much fire, appeared cold and lifeless, as stiff and still as a log. Her skin was pale, drained of color. The deep shadows under her eyes gave her face a hollow look. The Seafire had to work.
Upon hearing a pattering of footsteps, Malcolm gently lay her head back down on the bed and scanned the room for a place to hide his skin. He slid the pelt under the bed before Riona rushed in followed by Kenneth and Donald.
Riona's nose wiggled. “It smells like fish.” Her brows pulled in with a scowl.
“I spilled some seawater on the bed.” Malcolm waved his hand toward the damp spot.
Riona ran her hands over the sodden bratt. “Malcolm, she is soaked with the stuff. Bethoc is ill and must be kept dry.” Her vexation was evident in her curt tone and the way her lips pressed together, tightly.
“Hasten then and wrap a clean bratt around her. I am not leaving her side. Not you nor anyone else will keep me from my wife when she needs me.” Glaring at Riona, Malcolm stood, and took one step back.
Riona fussed with the wet tartans and furs. Changing them as best she could with Bethoc still laying on them. Malcolm grimaced when Riona jostled Bethoc's still form while she changed the bedding. But his gaze was torn away from Bethoc when Kenneth grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back. Malcolm met the hostile glare in the king's green eyes.
“You kept yourself from her well enough, cousin.” Kenneth clenched his teeth, the muscle at his jaw flicked angrily.
“Malcolm, why did you leave your wife? Where have you been?” Donald asked curtly.
“He has been to the sea. Can you not smell the brine?” Releasing his hold on Malcolm, Kenneth waved both his hands in the air.
“Seawater spilled from the pouch.” Malcolm held up the leather bag.
“What have you, thither?” Donald stepped forward to look.
“Seafire. It is a cure for Bethoc.” Malcolm was too tired to answer their questions. He didn't want to talk to anyone except his wife.
“What is Seafire?” Donald's dark red brows arched.
“The plant which will save my lady wife.” Malcolm bent down and brushed his hand across Bethoc's forehead.
Kenneth lay his hand gently on Malcolm’s shoulder. “The priest and healers say there is naught which can be done. It is too late for a cure.”
Those words ignited a sudden inferno in Malcolm, like a fire-breathing dragon, he unleashed his deadly flames. Grabbing Kenneth's arm, Malcolm flung him off his shoulder and back against the wall of the chamber. “You have no right to pass a death sentence on Bethoc. The healer has no right nor does the priest. I say Bethoc shall not die. And she shall not. I have the cure. I fed seafire to her with my own hand. Bethoc shall live. No one can say naught of it. Do you hear me?”
“Malcolm. I know naught of seafire. If you say it is the cure, then so be it. I have but cared for your lady wife as if she was my own sister. For these many days you have been gone, Riona has never once left your lady's side. We are all weary from sleepless nights worrying about her and wondering where you took off to. Temper your anger Malcolm. You have no cause to battle with me.”
“We knew not what to ken, the way you left,” Donald said, stepping in as peacemaker. “All of us would give our own lives to see Bethoc well. But we do not want you to believe in false hope.”
Malcolm shook the leather pouch in his cousins’ faces. “Seafire is a powerful cure.”
“It is as you say.” Kenneth kept his voice calm. “She will live. You gave her the seafire.”
“Yes. I put it in her mouth and forced her to swallow before you entered the chamber. It is why the bed was soaked. Seawater spilled out of the pouch.” Malcolm's pulse slowed and he began breathing at a normal rate, his anger abating.
“In truth?” Donald's eyes widened. “You have a cure for wound fever?”
“Yes. For Bethoc.”
“Let me look upon this magic plant.” Donald nearly grabbed the pouch from his cousin's hand.
Malcolm didn't care if Donald looked at the Seafire or not. He gazed at his wife's still body as Riona finished tucking a fresh, dry bratt around her.
“I hope this seafire is as potent as you say.” Kenneth nodded to Malcolm.
“Yes, it is.” Malcolm's gaze was riveted on Bethoc's pale face as he silently willed her to awaken. “Her fever should break at any moment.”
In that instant, Bethoc's long lashes fluttered open. Malcolm realized he had never in his life seen anything, on land or sea, as lovely as Bethoc's emerald eyes. But before he could speak, she let out a little moan and stirred.
Kenneth and Donald's mouths dropped open.
“Bless the heavens. I am back in the light. I have been in the darkness. Did the fey curse me?” Bethoc moaned.
“It was no curse of the fey but a Viking sword. You lay on your deathbed with wound fever.” Malcolm was so jubilant, he could barely stand still. He wanted to bark and turn flips. “Ah, Bethoc, you are healed. Thank the god of the sea, you are well.”
“By Saint Columba, it worked. Your seafire cured her.” Kenneth clapped Malcolm hard on the back.
Riona lifted her eyes upward as if saying a silent prayer of thanks. Speechless, Donald gaped at Bethoc as he clutched Malcolm's pouch in his hands.
* * * *
She felt like she had been shot out of one world and into another. She had been in total blackness. No thoughts. No sounds. Now she was in a world of light and people. But who was she? Where was she?
When she glanced around, everything was distorted, the chairs, chest, and beaker of ale were all a jumble. Even the ceiling and the floor were mixed up. It looked like a broken roman mosaic with pieces glued back in the wrong place.
To try to clear her vision, she shut her eyes then opened them. She focused on the man leaning over her. Thank the gods, she could see him clearly. His face seemed familiar. She longed to wrap her arms around him. Gazing into his large, indigo eyes as he call
ed to her, Bethoc knew she belonged with him. She felt safe with him there.
“Bethoc ... Bethoc.”
She gasped as realization struck her. Me? I am Bethoc? Suddenly, she knew where she was, who she was. “Malcolm!” My Scot husband.
Malcolm tenderly brushed his hand against her cheek. Bethoc's skin tingled where he had touched her.
“Malcolm, there was naught but blackness. No light, or sound, or thoughts. Nothing. What happened?”
“Ah, Bethoc, you were ill with wound fever. You were in a deep sleep, near the edge of death.” Malcolm's voice broke on the last words as if he choked back a sob. “But you are well.”
His trembling lips curved into a smile that stretched across his face and rivaled the warmth of the midday sun. “I shall never leave you again.”
“What do you speak of? You have been with me, have you not?”
He did not speak, but cast his gaze downward.
A feeling of dread hit her and she was almost afraid to ask. “How many days have I been ill?”
Malcolm met her gaze. “You have been in a death-like sleep for two fortnights.”
“We thought you would never recover.” Riona's tone was soft and sad.
“‘Malcolm's’ plant saved you.” Kenneth’s mouth eased into a smile. “It is why he left. To seek a magical herb which he knew could heal you.”
“You cured me?” Bethoc asked Malcolm as she tried to grasp all that had happened.
“Yes, I did.”
“You saved my life?” It seemed like an old tale a bard would sing of. Bethoc let out a long sigh. “With a magic plant?”
“Yes. I found it at the bottom of the sea. But I will never leave you again. I will stay here on land.”
“What do you mean? Of course, you will stay on land. Malcolm, you are not a fisherman, you are a warrior.” A soft chortle escaped Bethoc's lips. “Still light headed and foggy as I recover, it is I who should say silly or foolish things, not you.”
“In truth, I am not a seaman.” Malcolm flashed a half smile and lowered his voice to a gentle tone. “You best get well now, there is time enough to speak later.”
“Yes. But Malcolm when we do speak there is something I wish to ask you, for I know you keep a secret from me. Whatever it may be, I will hearten to it. If you will but tell me.”
“So be it.” Malcolm caressed her forehead with his warm fingers. “I shall tell you soon. You must lay back now and rest. We will talk when you are better.”
She reached out and he clutched at her hand and clasped it strongly in his while he sat at her bedside.
Bethoc felt like she was floating in sunshine. Malcolm risked his life to seek out a magical plant at the bottom of the sea. She drifted to sleep with that lovely thought.
Chapter Fourteen
“What say you of this fare? It is bitter on my tongue and the ale is stale,” Malcolm grumbled until the cook barred him from the kitchen.
After raving about the dullness of his steed's coat, which he attested to the stable boy not feeding the horse well or rubbing him down correctly, the lad began hiding whenever Malcolm entered the stables.
Every time Malcolm tired to talk to one of his cousins, he couldn't find them, as if Donald and Kenneth vanished into the air at the sound of Malcolm's name.
He’d become the terror of the castle. All because his skin itched to touch Bethoc one moment and yearned for fresh salt water the next. Bethoc's face was forever in Malcolm's mind except for those times when he saw only the sea and the life within it. When he wasn't at Bethoc's sick bed, Malcolm climbed onto a rock off shore, and in his human form, he barked as white foam waves lapped around him. The rest of his days were spent in chaste visits to Bethoc's bedchamber, as the healer said she was not yet fully recovered.
Malcolm stood at her bedside, watching over her as she slept. He wrapped his fingers around a stout beaker of ale on Bethoc's bedside table and took a swig. Hardy heather-ale was one thing he missed about life on land, Bethoc was the other.
There was not a female selkie in all the seven seas with as much spirit as Bethoc. Her face which held both beauty and strength recovered a pink tinge hue to bear out how much her health had improved. As she slept peacefully, he stroked her soft hair with his fingers. Malcolm's musing was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat.
Father Degnan, in his loose black robe, stood at the doorway. “Good day, Malcolm. How fares your lady wife?”
“She grows stronger. She will be well soon, Father.”
“Then it is true.” Father Degnan's eyebrows rose in a prominent slant.
“Yes.” Malcolm smiled thinking Degnan was speaking of Bethoc's recovery.
“I hear tell you bear a miraculous plant from the sea?” The priest's blue eyes sparkled with wonder.
“Oh, you have heard of yon seafire, have you?” Malcolm pointed to the chest by Bethoc's bed where the pouch lay.
“It is a plant known only to the selkies. It cured Bethoc, it did.”
“Do you still have some?” Father Degnan gazed at the pouch. “The miracle herb?”
“Yes.” Malcolm paused then added, “I have some. It is not easy to come by. Only a selkie can seek it out.”
Father Degnan crossed himself to ward off any fey magic. “I have never heard tell of it.”
Malcolm grabbed the leather pouch Donald left on the chest. “No Father. No human has heard of it afore. In truth, it grows at the bottom of the sea.” Malcolm stepped up to the priest who cupped his wrinkled hands. “Hither, have a look.”
Malcolm dumped the rest of the Seafire and saltwater into Father Degnan's cupped palms.
A rapt smile filled the priest's face. “It is resplendent.” Father Degnan gazed at what was left of the fiery ball and its amber petals. “Come Malcolm.” With his hands still cupped, the priest nodded toward the hall, gesturing to him to follow.
Malcolm walked with the priest down the hall, out the fortress, to the chapel, and into a small chamber where herbs hung from the wooden rafters. Various scents mingled into a heady, aromatic barrage. Malcolm sneezed from the mixed smells.
Father Degnan gestured to Malcolm to grab a clay bowl off the table. The priest turned his hands over and dumped the seafire into the earthen bowl. With a dull clunk, he laid a clay lid on top.
“It is a miracle. A cure for patients in the deathwatch of wound fever. A blessing to a myriad of men and more.”
“I am glad Father. Yet, I cannot fathom such a wee portion curing a myriad of men. If I were but able to do more?”
“You may. You need glean more Seafire for the people of Alba. Scots and Picts alike, my son.”
“Father, the bottom of the sea is a labyrinth of many creatures. Gathering Seafire is a bold task. Even if I find it, it is spiked with poison.”
“But, my son, so many have died from wound-fever. You have seen young men mortally wounded in battle. Could not the seafire have saved them?”
“Yes, it could have.” Malcolm realized he couldn't say no.
Father Degnan was right. He would save lives, not to mention, it would give him a chance to amend his ways of late with his heated temper erupting time and time again.
“Yes I shall seek more Seafire after Kenneth's coronation as the true King of Alba.”
“My thanks, Lord Malcolm. Bless you.”
“As with you, Father Degnan. It is an honored quest. The Seafire cure shall save the lives of both Picts and Scots.”
Malcolm clapped the priest on the back. Then loudly cleared his throat and leaned toward him. “I will need gold.”
Father Degnan's eyebrows arched as if he was shocked. “Ah, yes. You will need payment.”
“No priest. It is not to pay me. Let us say it is the sea's due.”“I do not fathom what you speak of as the sea's due. Yet, I know you would not ask for gold from the church if you did not have need of it.” Father Degnan nodded his head. “Our move to Scone has brought us many riches. I shall bestow upon you the gold commun
ion chalice from Dalriada as we have found a new one here in Scone.”
The priest picked up a gold cup, simple yet glorious in its craftsmanship. Its only adornment was a Celtic knot design etched at the base of the stem. The gleaming, warm rich gold of the deep bowl was molded in the rounded look of a caldron. Gazing at it, Malcolm felt fulfilled as if the cup could never be emptied.
The chalice was heavy in Malcolm's palm. Yes, it would make a fitting sacrifice to the sea god, Manannan Mac Lir, but he did not want to tell the Christian priest what he planned to do with the sacred goblet.
In gratitude for the gift he had bestowed upon him, Malcolm said, “Father, my thanks. Know this, I would not ask if I did not need it for the seafire.”
“I know this, my son. I thank you for helping the good people of Alba.”
“Yes father.” Malcolm wrapped his fingers tightly around the chalice and held it at his side. “But now I must take my leave for I am to sup with my lady wife this eventide.”
“Ah, then you must hasten.” Father Degnan grinned.
* * * *
A knock at her chamber door woke Bethoc. “Who goes there?” She eased into a sitting position in her bed, laden with plaid bratts and scattered fur pelts.
“M'lady, Steward Fergus, sent us to help you.”
“Yes, enter.” Bethoc stood and gestured the servants into her bedchamber. “I bid you, go to lord Malcolm's chamber and move his belongings here.” Bethoc pointed to a spot by the bed. “Put his chest hither.” She walked to the corner of the room, and stretched her arms out to the size and width of the smaller chest. “Place the coffer thither.”
“Yes, m'lady,” the taller man replied, then he and the other two bowed to Bethoc.
As the servants exited to do Bethoc's bidding, Riona entered the bower.
“Lord Malcolm is moving into your chamber?”
“Yes.” Bethoc let out an audible sigh. “Though he knows it not ... Not yet.”
The Scottish Selkie Page 12
